


Pretty When You Cry

by VVych



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Mental Health, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-12-16 09:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VVych/pseuds/VVych
Summary: “Have you heard the story of Petrushka?” Her voice was gentle, soothing, like snow falling softly and melting on Arthur’s skin. His leg began to judder with nervousness under the table and his mouth distorted into an uncomfortable smile. “A tragic Russian ballet about a clown who loves a ballerina, only the ballerina doesn’t love the clown back… so he kills her.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: ‘Joker’ was a hauntingly beautiful masterpiece. I had this story leap into my head after seeing the film – twice – and it demanded I write it.  
Disclaimer: I don’t own Batman or anything related to the universe. I own only my original characters.  
Rating M. Violent Imagery/Graphic Sex/Adult Themes/Detailed Depictions of Mental Illness.  
Pairing: Arthur Fleck/OC

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** _ Pretty When You Cry _ **

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_._

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_“I'm laughin' at clouds_   
_ So dark up above_   
_ The sun's in my heart_   
_ And I'm ready for love.”_

\- Singing in the Rain, published 1929. 

_ Gotham, 1980. December 1st.  _

It was by pure chance that he saw her. Their fate, entwined.

He had ended his day the same usual way. From downtown Gotham he walked to the central underground and caught the subway back toward South of Gotham. Usually, he would spend the commute time to reflect on the day of his theatrical career, head leaned back on the window, mind reeling with concealed torment and tiredness. He scratched at the dried, peeling white paint that remained on his ears.

It was loud. _Too _loud. There was so much noise on the carriage, people talking, shouting, _screaming_—no one sat with moral politeness and thoughtful community. He felt his shoulders shrink from two people sitting either side of him, not by choice, of course. The small, narrow, rusty carriage was soon full with people. He felt the air around him become hot and heavy, his mind clouded with suspicion and unease that made his joints tighten. 

Someone kicked his workbag, a teenaged boy, smirking and swinging backwards and forwards from the support bars in an attempt to pose his authority. The man’s eyes peeked upward, shyly, picking up his bag and placing it on his lap, clinging onto it.

He saw no reaction in people’s faces.

No light, no mercy, no sympathy, no feeling came from them.

_Stay calm, stay calm. _He breathed deeply, slowly, and clenched his jaw together tightly. _Stay fucking calm, Arthur. _

The cart began to move. It creaked with the overloaded weight and began to judder down the track into the black underground tunnel that, for a moment, soothed Arthur into a sense and feeling of nonexistence. He relished in the darkness, no one could see, no one could judge. The blackness was disrupted by flicking, artificial lighting and Arthur bowed his head to the floor, hiding from the world yet again.

It only took her laughter for him to realise her beautiful existence.

He looked up cautiously. Through the horde of people he saw her sat on the opposite end of the carriage.

Her hands were the first feature he noticed, holding a book delicately, rubbing the pages so gently as if she was caressing a butterfly wing. Her dark auburn hair cascaded down her right shoulder and over her breast and _down down down _her back. An enticing fan of lashes, a pointed nose, and a perfect mouth—he noted she bit her lip when she read a questionable piece of text. Something maybe—_disgusting? Offensive? Is she trying not to laugh? _

He smiled, thoughtlessly.

A standing woman noticed his uncalled grinning expression and scowled, pulling her young son closer to her. From this Arthur recoiled back to his original position; face down, arms tucked in. He anxiously pulled at his faded and worn blue slacks that were accompanied by a trench coat and his old knitted cardigan. He felt positively foul—his oversized clothes on his skinny and malnourished frame, hanging unflatteringly from his shoulders and backside. He smelled, a combination of sweat, latex and chalky paint. His skin itched unbearably.

.

.

.

It had taken half an hour for the cart to start emptying.

Every now and again Arthur would raise his head in silent protest to gaze at the women that sat so, so far away. It was like she was on the other side of the world. He noticed small and barely obvious habits, the occasional twirl of hair on her finger, itch of the nose, continuous tapping of the foot. And she _smiled, _smiled like a blissful child, unaware and uninterested in the foreboding atmosphere. Cheeks pinched, pearly whites bare, eyes narrowed into slits of pure joy and amusement.

_He brought his body upward from the slouched position. He stretched and confidently brought his face upward. He didn’t care if she saw him looking; he** wanted** her to notice. He _ _took a cigarette from a packet inside his trouser leg pocket. He indulged in the silence between them and hummed merrily to himself as he ignited the small flame from a silver zippo lighter. He inhaled deeply, blowing out smoke through his nose. He continued to hum a simple tune, checking his wristwatch. _

_It was the moment of performance._

_He stood with ease. He _ _wore trailered black trousers, pressed and fitted, and a black shirt that had been rolled up by the sleeves. His hair was like his attire, dark and sleek, his face tan and sharp._

_He brought his hand to the hanging assistance grips, and slowly he made his way over, his footwork mimicking a dance routine that passed through his body like fire and made his arms sway and hips buck and head gently nod. He felt an unknown rhythm take over his body, an unrehearsed dance to an unknown song. He placed his cigarette between his lips and inhaled._

_His feet slid across the floor, like he was skating on ice. His shoulders rolled back and his torso would twist and flaunt his moves to his single person audience. _

_She noticed then, and settled her book to the side of her, crumpling the pages unknowingly. Her eyes large with wonder and delight. He would cup her chin with his hand and place his thumb on her ever so soft bottom lip and caress that tender piece of flesh gently. Her hot breath would become shallow and short. She would reach out to touch him but he would continue with his dance, twirling and showing his talent. _

_His eyes—dark, dangerous—a predatory shine to them. _

_He bowed down, ending his performance with a devilish smile. He breathed smoke into her mouth. She inhaled it. It was strong and sent her dizzy. It swilled around them like a blizzard, like a storm. _

_“What’s your name?” Her voice was breathless. _

_“Arthur.” _

_“You dance so well.” She smiled, eyes cast down to his feet and then look up. “Can you teach me?”_

_He smiles. _

_He complies and holds her wrists and squeezes so hard her face screws and twists and she bites her teeth into that oh-so-pretty bottom lip and begins to moan with satisfaction. She can’t breathe, not without him, so he brings his mouth to hers and gives her what she’s been waiting for this entire journey. Her mouth is soft and like silk against his. _

_He would bite down on her tongue and the muscular organ would begin to bleed and bleed and bleed all down her chin and onto her breasts. A beautiful, artistic sight; like a rose that had been shaken and its petals fluttering on the floor in defeat. She doesn’t mind the pain; her body pushes against him, begging to be touched more. _

_She unbutton her shirt, pulling at her collar as she did, her clothes becoming too much of a hindrance. She pulled open her shirt and allowed her bare breasts to be exposed to the coldness of the carriage, pink buds hardening against the air. They bounce with the vibration of the carriage as she hikes up her skirt to reveal lace panties. He could see her wetness show through the fabric and hummed with joy. _

_His right hand traveled down her navel and touched the lace of her panties and then followed the waistline that guided him to her perky ass. He cupped its warmth, its plumpness, its smoothness. He brought his other hand around and lifted her up against the window. _

_He unzipped his slacks and allowed his cock to spring free, hard and glistening, aching between his legs. He could feel her grip become more desperate. Full of want, need. So greedy. So indulgent. She made her hips move forward so the embroidered fabric of her panties brushed up against his cock. _

_They looked at each other in eager anticipation, seeing into each other’s thoughts and desires before kissing once more. She tasted like a dream. So soft, so hot, so—_

“—next! Gotham South. Please change here for Silver Street!”

He blinked back into reality and coughed with embarrassing nervousness. More commuters stood for the next stop. He shifted uncomfortably, head down, staring at the floor as people passed. He peeked up once, in her direction, to see her looking towards him.

He had hoped she had seen him—no, then again—he prayed that she would stare right through. His fantasy wanted her to remain an illusion. She would be disgusted, sickened if she saw him. If she knew the _mere thoughts_ he had of her. But her face showed no reaction and her gaze remained absorbed in his direction. It was then, with a tuck of long hair behind her earlobe, she closed her book and stood for the next stop.

He gravely looked down to his feet, noticing the sole of his right shoe had started to tear away from the stitching. His leg shook rapidly and he hoped she had gone from his line of sight. In shameful temptation he looked up again—he held his breath.

He saw her smiling at him, knowingly. Smugly, like she had won a game. Her eyes twinkling beautifully, eyebrows arched and pearly whites bare to the world, _laughing. _

_I see you. I caught you. _Her eyes spoke._ I know you’ve been looking. I see you. I see you._

She then left the carriage, his infatuation faded and dropped to the pit of his stomach.

She _knew_. She _knew_ he had been looking.

He felt his lips contort uncomfortably; his throat began to spasm and from his mouth came a manic and inevitable laughter that reverberated through the empty carriage. He _always _laughed when he cried.

.

.

.

“It’s funny…” Arthur spoke, head resting on his hand that held a cigarette eloquently between calloused fingers. His green eyes were transfixed on the smoke that danced through the air and out the window of the office. Outside he looked toward the black city skyscrapers that contrasted against the snow that had concealed every inch of Gotham. The snowfall made the city look less cruel, less harsh, but Arthur knew better. It was late into the evening, and it was cold, sharp to the skin. “It’s _funny_… every day of my life, when everything is looking up, I’m _reminded_...”

“Reminded of what, Arthur?” The social worker, Arthur forgets her name, after all, she’s the fourth one he’s had since his transfer. She’s pleasant enough, but something about her, her persona, it didn’t seem genuine. Her words filled with fake interest and concern for his wellbeing. She brought her hands together and rested them on the table. “It’s alright. You can tell me. Nothing will leave this room. It’s just between us.”

He smiled, shaking his head.

“…Of how _fucked _everything is.” Arthur took another drag on his cigarette and let the ash fall down onto his slacks. He smirked, throat bouncing with own amusement. He inhaled deeply, “I once heard a joke, it uh, it goes… If you give a man a day of therapy he’ll be sad for the rest of his life… give a man a noose—_ha ha!” _He laughed for a moment. It was a pained and strained sort of glee. It always, _always _ended with the familiar tightness in his throat that made him cough and wheeze, only for it to start again, an endless cycle. It was maddening, not having control of your own body, your own emotion.

_“_Give a man… a _noose..._” He forced, “and he’ll be sad only for the next five minutes.”

Silence.

He laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: It’s been raining for an entire day and it’s inspired me to continue with this story. Nothing more relaxing. I apologies for the wait, but I hope it’s been worth it.

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** _ Pretty When You Cry _ **

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_“How does it feel having to come here? Does it help having someone to talk to?”_

_“I think I felt better when I was locked up in the hospital.”_

_“And have you thought more about why you were locked up?”_

_He could see his himself smashing his head against a door. Blood dripping, ears ringing, happy thoughts. All about her her her her her…_

_“Who knows…”_

_._

_._

_._

It hadn’t been a good day, Arthur thought.

The snow soon turned to rain, icy and unforgiving. The change in weather made most people retreat from the streets and back into the warm and soft comfort of their abode. The night poured with neon, flicking and buzzing, a rosy sign of a naked woman baring her most intimate area lit down dark alley. The word _Allure_ glowed over the building like a halo. The pulsing, rhythmic sound of music spilled from a club like an open vein. He was distracted by the irritating jeer of men in fine suits, drunk and slurring and grabbing pretty woman dressed in thin silk revealing their pale perky asses.

A woman walked slowly passed him, eyes and lip painted, skirt hiked up her thighs and top low enough for her cleavage to show. She pouted at him, eyes filled with lure. Her skin was covered in pox and bruises Arthur knew a needle had been. She said something to him, but he didn’t hear. He bowed his head and continued to walk. She called out to him and leaned on her hip expectantly, stiletto tapping against the sidewalk. In the end, she swore at him, “Fucking asshole! Go home and fuck yourself! Piece of garbage!”

“Go home and _fuck_ your mother!” She spat before departing. Arthur hunched his shoulders at the remark. Of course, no one really knew about his mother, she rarely left the apartment. Only the people on the same floor as himself knew of her timid, quiet existence.

His body was cold and tired. He finally came to steep concrete steps that took him to his apartment building, where his mother would be waiting… waiting, waiting, _always _waiting. The staircase had 132 steps, Arthur had counted once, and he had a persistent urge to jump down them once he reached the top. He took his first footing and his mind reeled back to the memory of the day…the subway, the laughing, the _women. _

Her face was still in his head. In his mind, she was like a deity, shrouded in white, and silently he prayed and prayed that something would be blessed upon him if he ever saw her again. She had _smiled _at him, so knowingly, so mischievously. Had she been watching him also? Unlikely, Arthur grimaced with skepticism. She was probably laughing at him, and not the way Arthur would have liked.

He shoved his hand into his pocket to try and find his key but instead he grabbed hold of something spongy and soft. He pulled out a red ball with that a slit in the middle. He brought it to his face and pushed it against his cold nose and smiled miserably.

. 

.

.

“Sweetie?”

“It’s me.”

“Arthur? Honey, is that you?” His mother’s voice came from a bedroom. He settled his keys on the countertop and threw his bag in the corner of the kitchen. He back ached, a dull kind of pain that he was used to. He rubbed his forehead and noticed the water from his clothes began to drip onto the floor. He swiftly removed his jacket, cardigan and his shirt that had become transparent.

“Who else is it going to be?” Arthur replied. Soon he was bare with only his underwear still remaining. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He could hear the television coming from his mother’s room. The constant chatter and laughter, a host and a punch line, and he remembered it was Thursday. The Murray Franklin Show was airing, of course.

He went to cabinet and opened it, allowing it to reveal all the prescribed medication. He took a bottle and emptied out two pink pills before putting them in his mouth, allowing them to sit and the powdery staleness cover his entire tongue. He ran the tap and drank from the flow of water.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror; his hair was a mass of tangled black curls and his face was pale and skeletal. The only feature that stood out from his pale features was the red clown nose that still sat upon his snout. His back was hunched over, head level. He leaned both hands on either side of the sink.

He inspected his body and touched his protruding ribs with his forefinger and ran it down to his stomach. His hipbones were sharp and defined, and so were his collarbones. He noticed areas around his face where his skin sagged, on his cheeks, around his jaw, his neck… He brought his hands to his cheeks and pushed the skin back, revealing his gums and teeth, a snarl in response to the sight.

The snarl soon turned upward into a forced smile. It hurt, pulling at his own skin, but Arthur didn’t care. He pulled at his skin and felt it’s elasticity follow suit of his contortion. His eyes darkened, unblinking and loathing his ugly, mangled, damaged self.

“Did you check the mail?”

A voice, meek, serene.

He let go of his reddened face and closed his eyes.

.

.

.

“What’s that on your face?” Penny, his mother, furrowed her brow and pointed to her own nose. She was sat upright in bed. The air inside the bedroom smelled of old Chanel perfume and soap. Her hair was like the colour of yellow autumn leaves, faded but still lovely, and her eyes still shone an icy blue.

“My nose.” Arthur replied nonchalantly. He had brought a tray of food and tea, and placed it on top of his mother’s lap, making sure not to spill the cup. He sighed heavily, and took a seat next to her, the bed squeaking under his little weight. “You don’t like it? It’s because someone punched me in the face today. It _swelled _and _swelled._”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about stuff like that,” Penny rested a frail hand upon her son’s arm and squeezed ever so softly, lovingly. “I worry about you.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Arthur smiled. His cheeks hurt. “Is Murray still on?”

“Why are you so late?”

“My job didn’t finish till late, the guy didn’t want to pay me…” Arthur closed his eyes. He rubbed his temples. “The subway was packed, it took ages to get on and then I saw—“

_That laugher. That smile. That face. _

_The way she kissed his mouth. Wait, no, no she didn’t. She saw him, though. Knew his existence. _

_“_Oh! It’s back on!” Penny clapped softly. The television cut back to a studio audience, cheering and applauding, and then to a playing band. At the end of the cheery but short opening song, the host reappeared on screen, Murray Franklin. He dressed in a smart and formal suit, yet had the top of his white shirt undone, to display a form of casualness. He smiled, and welcomed everyone back to the show. Penny smiled in return, “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”

_She looked over and smiled. Knowing. I see you. _

“Yeah. Yeah she is.” Arthur replied, softly.

.

.

.

He lay in his bed, motionless but awake. His bed sheets had been cast aside onto the floor. In the end, he gave in and switched his lamp on. It beamed an orange glow. From the floor he reached for his cigarette packet, took a damp cigarette and tried to light it. Eventually the end of the cigarette sizzled and Arthur inhaled deeply, slowly. Outside the rain still fell. No longer did Gotham look like a winter wonderland, but it had gone back to being the grey, unpleasant concrete jungle is always was. In no time, Arthur was on his second cigarette.

He could hear the symphony of the building. Above him he could hear talking, slowly becoming louder and louder, and soon he could hear the ceiling creak with sudden weight. Some dust fell. He could hear a lone siren, the flash of red and blue in the distance, then it was gone, lost forever into the crime infested neighbourhood.

He could still hear the talking upstairs, well, arguing. He knew he lived below a husband and wife. Martial problems were a common issue. Often he heard the man swear and shout, and then go off into the night, and not return until the early hours. Even then, he never slept. Like Arthur, he was a creature that stayed awake most of the night, mumbling angrily at past events that he could never change.

“Why did the old man like having insomnia?” Arthur asked to the empty room. He took a long drag and blew out the smoke, allowing it to come out from his nostrils. “Because he didn’t have to sleep with his wife.”

He grinned.

He then heard it.

A soft moan.

It came from the wall beside him. At first he thought someone was in pain, had fallen over, but the more he listened, the more he realized the true meaning behind the moaning and sighing and gasping. He could make out the _creak creak creak _of a bed mattress. He no choice but to listen to the sound of a women he didn’t know, moaning her lover’s name and begging for him to _‘—keep going. Don’t stop!’_

He turned the light off.

His put his cigarette in the ashtray. He tried to sleep. But the noise coming from next door, he couldn’t block _It _out. _It _didn’t stop. He turned on his side and placed a pillow over his ear. He could still hear _It, _still hear, still _hear hear hear… _

His right hand traveled down his navel and stopped at the elastic of his underwear. He felt hot and heavy. His leg began to tremble.

He then heard his door creak, slowly. His eyes snapped open and he turned to the darkness, seeing someone standing within it. Alone. 

_“Arthur?” _

_“What are you doing here?” Arthur sat up, pulling at his bed sheets. He blinked hard. She was there. Standing in his doorway was the women from the subway. She looked shaken. Her pretty hair wet and dark, like seaweed. Her cheeks pink from the cold. She only wore a sweater and skirt, and he noticed she didn’t have any shoes on. Her bare feet made their way across the room to him. She was like a ghost. Arthur spoke in a hushed tone. What if his mother heard? “How did you get in?”_

_The women blinked. _

_“I had to…” She began, and bit her lip. She shamefully bowed her head and looked at him through her long lashes. Water dripped from her, and he could hear the drops land on his floor. Drip drip drip. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “The subway, I wanted to say… I’m sorry. I want you to forgive me. Please, please, I never meant to…”_

_“You’re all wet.” Arthur noted. She was soaked. Her jumper sagged from her body, the wool heavy with water. He stood from his bed. He was a couple inches taller than her. He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come. I don’t want you here.’_

_“Please. Please, don’t say that. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” She approached him and placed her hands on his chest. Her fingers interwove with his chest hair and she kissed his right collarbone tenderly. It felt, good. In return, Arthur gripped her elbows and pushed her up against the wall. She gasped, and opened her mouth to protest._

_“Don’t say a fucking word.” Arthur hissed, and placed his finger against his own lips. He stared into her eyes and saw the fear. He wrapped a hand around her neck and pressed lightly, enough for her breath to become hitched. Something began to rumble in his throat, faintly, and then she realized he was laughing. He grinned. “Your face just now. Ha! Ha aha!”_

_“I thought you were going to kill me.” She sounded breathless. He removed his hand and sat on the bed. _

_“I can, if you want.” Arthur offered. He raised an eyebrow. _

_She smiled, so beautifully. “You’re funny.” _

_“So, uh, you came all this way…” Arthur rubbed his chin. He looked back up at her. She had placed a hand where his had been. “To see me?”_

_“What we did on the subway…” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She sighed, defeated. “You just left. I didn’t get a chance…a chance to say what I wanted…”_

_“You thought I was funny, huh?” Arthur sneered. He shook his head and threw his hands in the air. In response, she placed her own hands into his. His grimace dissolved into an amused expression, and his gaze blackened, emptiness._ _His eyes gleamed and his mouth turned upward, amused, and then knowingly spoke, “I know why you’re here. You want this, don’t you?”_

_He took her hand and placed it between his legs. He pushed his hips forward. He could feel himself become harder, but refused to lose control. He ignored the aching pleasure. _

_“Yes.” She whispered._

_“Say it.” Arthur said. “I want to hear you say it.”_

_“I want you, Arthur.” She leaned against him, resting her head on his. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”_

_He kissed her on the mouth, softly. She felt cold to the touch. He pushed his tongue inside her mouth and felt her moan against his lips. It was a long, deep kiss. She lifted herself from the floor, placing both her knees at either side of Arthur’s thighs, and straddled him, holding onto his shoulders for support. In response Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist._

_“Say it again.” _Arthur breathed.

_“Fuck me.”_

_._

_._

_._

He stirred the brush inside a pot of white paint, allowing the bristles to be completely covered before applying the substance onto his face. The bulbs around his mirror flickered. He had worked for Happy Chaps for less than a year. The pay wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good either. He had found his place at the small corner of the dressing room, amongst the misplaced and lost props, a fine place to prepare for his theatrical job.

He understood his coworkers found him weird. From the moment they heard his maniacal laughter, they disowned him, threw him aside, like a leper. He preferred the solitariness, it gave him more time to think and write down his standup material. Even if he did have to dress as a clown.

_A stepping-stone, _Arthur thought, _making people laugh._

“’ey, Arthur!” Mike shouted from the opposite end of the room. Michael was young; he was shorter than Arthur and had more muscle. His hair was brown and messy, facial hair unshaven, a rough rogue that made women swoon. He was comic, and a good one. He was a product of a troubled upbringing, a wasted youth and an alcohol filled adulthood. Arthur often wondered how Mike was here, the free sprit that belonged to no one but himself, his whole cheerful demeanor raised curiosity. “Spread this shit around will ya? Boss expects me to get rid of ‘em all.”

Arthur didn’t mind Mike. Not everyone liked him, they found him too cocky. But he made Arthur laugh with his inappropriate humour and black comedy routine. He had passed Arthur a bundle of flyers, advertising the business, local shows, and the theatre—

He saw her.

She was on front cover. There, dressed like a ballerina.

The women from the subway.


End file.
